


Day 25: Christmas morning (Sherlock's POV)

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: Mina Watson-Holmes 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, POV Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John cannot possibly be here to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 25: Christmas morning (Sherlock's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends :) So this is Sherlock's POV of [Day 25: Christmas morning](http://http://archiveofourown.org/works/5531474).   
> I felt like I couldn't just leave him without a voice.

Sherlock is on the verge of throwing his mold experiment out the window when he hears it. A quiet, delicate, muffled _Da_ , and for a moment, he thinks he’s finally gone mad. He delicately places the mold tray back on the kitchen table and pads over to the door of the flat, ears straining, and it’s only a few moments before he hears it again. This time, however, it’s accompanied by the sound of the front door opening and heavy steps mounting the stairs to 221B, and Sherlock is now convinced that he’s imagined this moment for so long that he’s finally started hallucinating it. When John pushes open the door to 221B, however, Sherlock takes one look at him and breathes out a sigh of relief. He had never been able to perfectly capture John’s expressions in his mind palace, and this John is perfect beyond belief. He is also attentively listening to the small, blonde, curly-headed person he is carrying in his arms along with a small duffel bag. Mina is cooing and gurgling at him in the very specific way that she has with sounds, and Sherlock can’t help but think that proper language isn’t very far down the road. He takes all of this in in the three seconds John hesitates before tentatively saying, “I’m... back. If you’ll have me.” 

Sherlock freezes for a moment, letting those words wash over him. It’s too good to be true, obviously. He can’t give John what he wants. No matter how much he loves John, he’s not partner material. His experiments will keep John awake at night. He’ll accidentally blow up the kitchen one day. His violin playing will disturb Mina’s rest. His cases will constantly keep him away from the flat. Simply wanting John to stay can never be enough. 

He looks at the small duffel bag in John’s hand, and that’s when he realizes that John knows this. He’s only brought enough things to last him approximately a week, so this is a temporary measure. He’ll probably go out flat-hunting over the next week to find a safer place for Mina and him to live, because if Sherlock is completely honest with himself, that’s something he’ll never be able to provide for John. That, however, does not mean he can’t make this week as easy as possible for John and Mina. Sherlock takes a deep breath, plucks Mina from John’s hands and places her on the floor, and hugs John, hoping it adequately conveys that _of course, he’ll have him_.

***

Once John and Mina are settled upstairs, Sherlock starts to clean. He bins the mold experiment, tracks down containers and labels for the body parts in the fridge, puts said containers on the top shelf so Mina can’t reach them, empties the drawer full of maggots and sterilizes it, then steps into the sitting room. Mina has just started walking, and is fully capable of pulling down books and experiments he has in here, as well. With a sort of manic energy, he flings all the books back onto the shelves, removes all the broken glassware from the coffee table, and as a final touch, he hoovers for the second time in his life. 

Several hours later, he steps back to examine his handiwork. 

The kitchen is now so clean one could probably eat off the floor. The table is bare but for his microscope, which he has carefully pushed to the back of the table so that Mina can’t pull it down. The dishes are clean. The coffee table is clean. The floor is free of books and experiments, providing a large play area for Mina. 

Sherlock studiously ignores the treacherous voice in the back of his head that whispers, _Maybe if it’s clean enough, John will stay._

John comes downstairs a couple of hours later, having put Mina to bed for the night, and gasps at the sight of the squeaky-clean flat.  
Sherlock tells himself that John’s broad grin is enough. 

***

The next morning, John comes downstairs with Mina in his arms. Sherlock glances at them over his laptop screen as John gives her half a banana and some cut-up toast for breakfast, watching as she smiles at John and animatedly babbles at him while gesturing wildly with a piece of fruit. Then, John is in front of him, sitting Mina in his own armchair and kissing her blonde curls. Sherlock doesn’t clue in until John starts to put on his coat. 

“John? Where are you going?” he asks, slightly panicked, because _John isn’t putting Mina’s coat on_.

“I’m just popping off to the shops. Thanks for cleaning the fridge out, but there’s still nothing edible in there, and Mina and I can’t just live off air like some people,” John replies easily, smiling as he ties his shoes. 

Sherlock looks from Mina, who smiles at him, to John, who is now fully absorbed in his shoe-tying, and back. “You’re just going to, what, leave her with _me_? John, are you insane?!”

John finally looks up from his shoes and straightens, his hand on the doorknob. “Sherlock. I’ll only be gone an hour. She’s just eaten, she’ll be fine,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Sherlock waits until he hears the front door open and close before he looks at Mina. She’s looking up at him expectantly, John’s eyes staring at him from a different face. Somehow, she’s making the exact face John does when he’s waiting for Sherlock to rattle off some incredible deduction, and Sherlock tells himself it can’t hurt to do just that. He leans forwards in his armchair.

“Mina. You have John eyes but Mary’s nose, but most of your facial expressions resemble John’s, probably because Mary hasn’t been around very often. You talk to John all the time, and you’ve figured out the simple words like Da, but you’ve only said Ma once, as if you know she’s not coming back, but you’re strangely okay with that, again, because she hasn’t been around very much. The patterns you are wearing don’t match in the slightest, probably because John wants you to assert your independence at a young age and allows you to pick the clothes you’re going to wear. You’re not panicking now that John’s gone because you’re used to him going to work and being left with a nanny, however, she left when Mary did so I suppose I am to be your nanny now. You’re not kicking your feet right now because for some reason, what I’m saying is interesting to you,” he reels off rapidly, and as he pauses for breath, Mina gives a delighted giggle and claps her hands together in that uncoordinated way babies have. Sherlock feels his heart melt into a puddle in his chest and drip all the way down to his feet.

“Did I get anything wrong?” he asks, his voice oddly hoarse. 

Mina proceeds to give him impressive commentary on his observations in coos and babbles, the same way she does with John, and Sherlock can’t help but notice that there’s a distinct pattern in the way she speaks. Sherlock nods along with her, answering when appropriate, listening attentively as she gestures and kicks her feet as she talks. He doesn’t notice how much time has passed until he hears a floorboard creak and looks up to see John standing in the doorway, watching them with damp eyes and a soppy smile. Sherlock excuses himself to Mina and flees to the kitchen.

***

A week passes, but John doesn’t leave. John doesn’t even go flat-hunting, and Sherlock starts to wonder how much longer this torture will last. Instead, at the one week mark, several boxes are delivered to the flat. John spends all day placing his things around the flat in a fairly close approximation of how they were before Sherlock… left, and Sherlock finds himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He chooses to say nothing about how much harder it will be for John to pack everything up again when he leaves. 

***

The next week, John goes to the shops again. This time, Sherlock is sitting at his microscope, so John sets Mina down on the table next to it, dropping a kiss on the top of her head on his way out. Sherlock looks up, startled, as the door closes behind John and Mina points to the microscope with a curious coo. He pulls out his laptop, adds the sound to the spreadsheet under _Inquisitive sounds_ , then turns back to her. 

“This is a microscope, Mina,” he tells her. Mina smiles and coos again, and faced with John’s puppy-dog eyes, there is nothing Sherlock won’t do. He points to the various parts of the microscope as he explains. 

“This is the eyepiece. You look through here to observe what you’ve placed here, on the stage. The microscope magnifies the image so that you can see things in much greater detail,” he begins, not sure why he’s explaining a microscope to a ten-month-old. Mina, obviously bored with his lackluster explanation, picks up a slide and starts banging it against the stage, laughing hysterically, and Sherlock can’t help but laugh along with her. Eventually, she calms down and thrusts the slide in Sherlock’s face, nearly taking out his eye. She makes the same inquisitive coo as before.

“That’s a microscope slide. You place samples on it so they can be observed,” he explains. He knows she can’t understand a word he’s saying, but the way she follows him with John’s eyes and nods her head almost makes him feel like she does, and before he knows it, he’s explaining the whole experiment to her. 

“I’m studying the blood of a man that was found at a crime scene because the man died without a single mark on him. He may have been poisoned, so I’m looking for any irregularities in his blood cells or extra components in his plasma, as well as excessive macrophage and leucocyte activity…” he rattles off, examining the slide as he goes. It’s only when the answering babbles have stopped for some time that he realizes she’s fast asleep on the table. His voice had seemed to soothe her, so he continues his explanations as he goes on, only noticing John is home and reading in his armchair when Mina wakes up and points it out to him. 

***

That night, Sherlock hears Mina crying for the first time since she’s moved in. It’s a heartbreaking, lonely sound, and Sherlock is up the stairs and through the door before he’s even consciously decided to be. John looks like he’s about to wake up, frowning into his pillow, so Sherlock leans into the crib and holds Mina in his arms without a second thought. He whispers quiet nonsense to her, further explanations about the blood spatter experiment, as she looks up at him raptly, her cries long-since stopped. She beats his upper arm with a tiny fist as she listens, and eventually her eyelids start to droop shut again. Sherlock leans down to place her back in the crib, then wanders slowly back downstairs, wondering why he’s insisting on making it more difficult to say good-bye. 

***

“Sherlock? Can I talk to you for a second?” 

Sherlock glances up from where he was watching Mina pile some blocks together, babbling to herself, and nearly has a heart attack when he realizes what John has just said. He braces himself for the worst as he walks into the kitchen. 

“What’s wrong, John?” 

John sighs. “Nothing’s wrong, Sherlock. I just…” he breaks off, searching for his words, and Sherlock’s mind is automatically redirected towards _something is definitely wrong_. John eventually pieces together a sentence. “You know, you can do experiments. Just… try to clean them up so that Mina doesn’t get into them. But. You can. If you want to.” 

“Of course I can, John. I’m just…” and now Sherlock is the one who’s lost for words. He doesn’t want to remind John of his impending departure, but it seems like there’s no way around it, now. He takes a breath. “I’m just trying to make your time here easier. After Mary.”

John looks confused for a moment, and Sherlock can practically see the gears turning in his head. He’ll probably never stop finding that adorable, and he mentally admonishes himself for it. “What do you mean, our… time here?” John finally says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your time here. Until you find another flat.” His voice cracks a little on the last word despite his attempt at nonchalance, and he curses his sentimentality for the thousandth time in the past two weeks. 

John looks surprised. “I’m not looking for another flat!” 

“For when you do, then. I’m not an ideal flatmate, John, as you know full well.” 

“But… Sherlock, there’s nothing –,” but Sherlock doesn’t hear the rest as he whirls out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and hating himself when he hears Mina’s answering cry. 

***

John is putting on his coat, and this time, Sherlock is ready for it. He has his laptop out, two spreadsheets open, and all of Mina’s toys spread out in front of her on a soft blanket. Right now, she is happily banging a purple block and a toy car together, explaining to him in great detail what she’s doing. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he would say she was doing an experiment on the Mohs scale. He enters the various sounds into one spreadsheet while attempting to explain this experiment in another, listening to her attentively. 

“Mina, you must realize you’re going to have to follow the experimental method if you ever expect these results to be published,” he states. Mina stops banging the toys together and looks up at him with an inquisitive noise. Sherlock looks around, making sure that John isn’t there before he lies on his stomach facing Mina so that their heads are on the same level. 

“First, you have to have a hypothesis. What would you like to prove?” 

In answer, Mina reaches out and punches him quite hard on the nose, cackling madly. Sherlock remembers that one should never use the word prove in an experiment, as this would be impossible, and tries again. This was probably not what the punch in the nose was for, but at least it did remind him. 

“What are you trying to _confirm_ , Mina?” 

In answer, Mina starts furiously bashing the block on the blanket while shouting excitedly, the toy car lying forgotten. Sherlock types into the spreadsheet: _The purple block is more solid than all of my other toys_. It’s important to record experiments for posterity.

“How are you going to go about confirming that?” he asks, genuinely curious. Mina looks straight at him and gives the most perfect Sherlockian eye roll he has ever seen, and he chokes and sputters as he realizes what he’s just seen. John’s eyes rolling at him in a perfect imitation of his own is not something he’d ever thought he’d see and it takes him several moments to recover, as Mina blows an impatient raspberry at him. Once his attention is once again focused on her, all thoughts of _John staying Mina staying John and I raising Mina together and living here as a happy little family for the rest of our days_ firmly pushed to the back of his mind, she huffs and starts to explain. 

Once she has stopped babbling, she starts bashing all of her other toys with the purple block, missing half of the time because of her lack of coordination, as Sherlock does his best to keep nodding seriously at her. Once she has slammed the purple block against the last of the toys in line, she sits back, satisfied, and throws the block as far as she can across the room. She then lies on her back and wiggles her feet.  
Sherlock turns back to the spreadsheet and sets up one category for each of the other toys. _Toy car, blue block, green block, train engine, teddy bear_. Mina crawls over and pokes her head over his shoulder to watch him typing in the results, confirming each one with a soft coo in his ear.

Sherlock isn’t sure what he’s going to do when she leaves. 

***

In the very early hours of Christmas Eve, the unthinkable happens. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen, debating whether or not it would be worth it to wake John for him to make Sherlock tea, when he hears it. He doesn’t even use the spreadsheet anymore; he’s committed each and every one of Mina’s sounds to memory, now, and this particular one means she wants affection. Having just decided that he really shouldn’t be waking John right now, he pads quietly up the stairs to convince Mina to go back to sleep.

Mina is loudly voicing her unhappiness, but she rapidly quiets when she sees him in the doorway. Standing up in the crib, she reaches her arms towards him until he picks her up and rocks her gently. He quietly whispers the results of her latest experiment back at her, and she makes an inquisitive noise as she reaches towards his face and smiles. He sees total acceptance in her eyes, and he’s not sure he’s ever been this happy. He pushes the thoughts reminding him that this is temporary to the back of his head as he rocks her back and forth, watching her eyes blink slowly closed. He’s about to put her back in her crib when she sleepily mumbles _Pa_. 

The thoughts fly through Sherlock’s head all at once, leaving a wreckage in their wake. Mina said _Pa_. Not _Da_ , which is what she calls John, not _Ma_ , which is what she had once called Mary, but very distinctly _Pa_. She had been looking right at him when she said it, which means she knew the exact significance of her word, but _she’s leaving_ , and _John’s leaving, too_ , and _this can’t happen_. He places her back in the crib with shaking fingers, his entire head aching from the effort of holding the tears at bay, and flees the room, Mina’s cries of _Pa, Pa, Pa, Pa_ echoing behind him.

***

Sherlock pulls on his coat, one sleeve at a time, and it has never felt more difficult than it does right this moment. He can still hear Mina calling for him, can hear John starting to get out of bed to calm her, and his every instinct is screaming _go to her, she needs you_ , but he can’t, _he can’t_ , because she doesn’t need him, she needs _John_ , and John doesn’t need him at all. He fumbles with his laces for what seems like an eternity, listening to John’s soft murmur upstairs, and then the tears are flowing out in ugly, hiccupping sobs before he can even think to stop them. He sits there, paralyzed by his shaking body, until the sobs turn to shivers and he can drag his useless transport down the stairs and out the door. 

The tears freeze to his cheeks as he tears furiously down Baker Street and towards Regent’s Park. He only has so much energy, however, and halfway there, he slows to a jog, then to a walk. The tears stop flowing quite so much and he wipes angrily at his face with the sleeve of his Belstaff. They’ve slowed considerably by the time he passes the bandstand and stands facing the calming sight of the frozen water before him. 

It’s not summer time; there are no ducks, no pigeons, no animals of any kind to distract him, but he can still picture it. He finds a bench to collapse onto and watches the water as the image rises unbidden in his mind: he and John, sitting hand in hand on this bench, the sun shining on their upturned faces as Mina runs around in front of them, chasing the ducks. The ducks, of course, want nothing to do with her, and she cries out after them as her long blonde curls toss and twirl. John turns his head towards Sherlock, and smiles that soft smile Sherlock has always wanted to have directed at him, and Sherlock smiles back. John presses a quick kiss to his lips before rising and holding his hand out to him. _Come on, Sherlock, she clearly needs our help_. And Sherlock pretends to be frustrated and pretends to explain that their help won’t convince the ducks to like their daughter, and John laughs and takes his hand anyway, and – 

The sounds of people and children shake him out of his reverie. He blinks rapidly, clearing his head, and checks his watch, only to realize that it’s already well-past noon. He rises from the bench, which is now surrounded by stupid, simple, _happy_ people, and slinks out of the park. The sharp, stabbing pain from this morning has now lessened and turned into a dull throb in his chest as he continues walking as far from Baker Street as he can. He walks all the way around Regent’s Park, down towards Kings Cross, down Euston Road, and he eventually stops paying attention. By the time he realizes his legs are cramping up and his transport simply won’t take him any further, the only thought left in his head is that he will take whatever John will give him. If John leaves, Sherlock knows that he’ll visit often, with Mina, and that could be enough. That would _have_ to be enough. If John stays… Sherlock doesn’t let himself think any further down that path. Instead, decision made, he slowly starts the long trudge back to Baker Street. 

***

He makes it home at three o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day. He opens and closes the front door as softly as he can manage, then takes off his shoes so he can get up the stairs quietly. He’s about to open the door to their sitting room when he hears the bed upstairs creak, and the overwhelming tide of guilt that washes over him is nearly unbearable. He tries reaching for the doorknob again, but his hand feels like lead. He can still hear the echo of Mina calling for him as he rushed out the door, and while he can’t find the courage to apologize to either of them while they’re awake, he can find it in himself to apologize to their sleeping forms. He places his shoes on the ground by the door and turns towards John’s room, carefully walking up the stairs. He pushes the door open, mindful of its tendency to creak, and looks inside. Mina is on her back in the crib, her arms extended and a small line of drool running from her mouth onto the mattress. John, on the contrary, is on his face, and Sherlock can’t help but notice they both have the exact same facial expression in sleep, and that observation nearly ends him. He stands frozen in the doorway for what seems like hours before he summons up the courage to whisper, “I’m sorry” into the room. Then he pads back downstairs to try to get some sleep. 

***

Two hours of fitful sleep later, Mina’s cry of _I’m bored_ startles him awake. He grins widely to himself, proud that he has had at least a small impact on her, before he remembers where he is and why and his misery settles back over him like a blanket. Still, he doesn’t want to trouble John, so he rushes upstairs and rocks Mina back to sleep before he stirs. Everything is going fine until Mina mumbles _Pa_ as he places her back in the crib, and he feels it like a punch to the gut. He stops for a moment to catch his breath, get his body under control, then flies downstairs again. 

He stops in front of one of the sitting room windows, looking unseeingly through it. He’d really thought he could do it. He had really thought he’d be able to take whatever John gave him, but then, he’d always had the stupidest thoughts in the early hours of the morning. His legs still ache fiercely from his long walk and the pain in his chest has only intensified since he’s come back downstairs. He hasn’t any idea what to do next. He’s about to put his head in his hands when he hears John’s military gait on the stairs. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself together, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he’d gotten more sleep.

“Sherlock,” come John’s voice, and Sherlock is not prepared for this. He turns to find John standing in the doorway, adorably sleep-rumpled, and holding a box in his hands. 

“What is it, John?” he replies. His voice is hoarse from disuse and raw from the tears, and he hates every rasping syllable.

John doesn’t reply. Instead, he places the box on the coffee table and comes towards him. He reaches both hands towards Sherlock and gently wraps them around the fist that Sherlock has clenched in his dressing gown without even realizing it. One at a time, John uncurls each of his fingers until they’re laced through John’s own instead, and Sherlock cannot think of a single thing to say. He’s frantically shoving furniture aside in his mind palace to make room for this single moment, for the feeling of John’s fingers tangled through his. He continues to stare at their joined hands, transfixed, as John leads him to the sofa and gently sits him down. He’s grateful for this, because his legs seem to have finally given in. He finally forces himself to look up at John.

“Sherlock, do you know why I named her Mina?” John asks, and Sherlock is thrown for a loop. This is not where he had expected this conversation to go. He wants John to cut to the chase and tell him he’s leaving, that he’s found a flat, that he’s found a new wife. Sherlock cobbles together a sentence from the ruins of his mind palace. 

“I haven’t the faintest. I have searched your family history, I have searched Mary’s fake family history, and I honestly cannot deduce where that name came from. Did you choose it at random?” There. Full sentences. He can get through this.

John steps forwards, right into the _personal space_ John constantly insists must be respected, and cups his face in his hands. Sherlock’s brain goes offline for a moment, and more areas of his mind palace are torn down to make room for the feeling of John’s slightly callused fingers grazing his cheekbones. They’re soothingly rubbing at his temples, and as his heart rate skyrockets Sherlock thinks hysterically that John probably isn’t aware that they’re doing the exact opposite of soothing him. 

“It’s the short form of Wilhelmina, Sherlock.”

There’s a sort of flash, and he retreats into what’s left of his mind palace, frantically pulling open drawers and upending wardrobes until he finds what he was looking for. Mina. Wilhelmina. William. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. _Sherlock is actually a girl’s name_. I love you. _William is actually a girl’s name_. John loves him. Distantly, he can hear the high pitched sound of an object flying towards him, but by the time he realizes what it is, his mind palace has already been blown to pieces and been replaced by a single sentence. _John loves him_. He watches, awed, as the sentence rises from the rubble and becomes the foundation of his mind palace, as the columns and stair cases rebuild themselves around it, through it, over it, even more majestic than before. Light shines through every room, the dust has vanished, and John is no longer sequestered in a dark, gloomy wing, because he is the mind palace, he is its very heart, and Sherlock can’t breathe for the joy exploding from his chest.

He resurfaces and reaches for John, pulling him down for a kiss, because if John loves him, then _he is allowed to do this._ He lets every emotion he hadn’t let himself feel flow into John over their connection, kissing him with a desperation he hadn’t even known he’d be capable of. He crushes John closer as he feels John’s emotions flow back towards him, allowing himself to feel cherished, to feel loved, and when he finally pulls back to breathe, John pulls him into an all-consuming hug as they pant together. Once their breathing has quieted, John reaches behind himself and places the box in Sherlock’s lap. 

Sherlock looks down at it, confused, but John nods encouragingly, so he reaches down and delicately opens the box, which is full of… papers? He pulls them out and starts to read. About three sentences in, he’s realized what they are, and he briefly wonders if it’s medically advised to feel this many emotions in one day. His heart hammering in his chest, he looks back up at John.

“These are adoption papers, John. For Mina,” he manages. John loves him, John means to stay, but surely John doesn’t mean – 

“Yes.” John says. 

“You intend for me to…” he begins, not daring to end that sentence in case John means something else. John _must_ mean something else.

John smiles his soft smile, _the_ soft smile, right at him, as he reaches inside the box to pull out another, smaller one. Sherlock catches sight of the velvety material and sways in his seat as John says, “I intend for _us_ to raise her, yes.” 

But Sherlock is no longer focused on the words coming from John’s mouth, because there is something in John’s hand. Something impossible. Something unthinkable. “John, surely you don’t mean to –.”

But John is on one knee now, and all the air seems to leave the room. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?”  
This is it. This is the moment. In his mind palace, everything has stopped. Nothing moves. Not a single sound is heard. It’s almost as though the universe has stopped and is awaiting his answer with baited breath. He has a sort of out of body experience in which he is sitting at the top of the stairs in his mind palace, calmly watching as he flings his arms around John and buries his face in his neck. It’s as if the world has been muted; he sees his shoulders shaking, he sees John’s eyes watering, but he doesn’t hear a single sound until Yes manages to tear itself from his throat and into John’s skin, and there’s an earth-shattering noise as his mind palace bursts back into activity at the same time as the rest of the universe unmutes. He’s back in his body, and John smells like cheap soap and lavender detergent and John, and he’s holding him, and everything is _perfect_. 

He barely feels it when John whispers, “We’re staying for good, Sherlock,” into his curls, and he nearly gives in to the urge to laugh and say, _Well of course I know that NOW_. Instead, he nods in agreement, feeling John smile into the top of his head, and lets himself be held close. 

He’s in the middle of erecting an entire wing devoted to this moment when Mina cries out upstairs. Sherlock smiles proudly as he realizes that she knows she’s missing out on something downstairs, and how smart she must be to know that. John loosens his grip and whispers, “Go bring your daughter down here so she can open her Christmas gifts.” 

And Sherlock does.

**Author's Note:**

> The special is tomorrow. See you all on the other side if we haven't all died.


End file.
